Tidings of Comfort and Joy
by HappyChaos3D
Summary: Haunted by what had happened to him in Hell, Dean has lost the Christmas spirit and Sam the Grinch puts his hard feelings for the holiday aside to help him by reminding him of Christmases past and they both discover what Christmas means to them.


**Summary**: Haunted by everything that had happened to him in Hell, Dean has lost the Christmas spirit and Sam the Grinch tries to put his hard feelings for the holiday aside to help him and in turn they both discover what Christmas means to them.

**Spoilers**: Season 4 up to "Heaven and Hell"

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**A/N **Written for the 12/25/08 UnGen challenge. A little late to be an official entry thanks to some technical difficulties involving a finicky Internet but I worked too hard on this to not post. I hope you all enjoy!

**Tidings of Comfort and Joy**

**By Deana W.**

Sam found him sitting at a table in the darkest corner of the bar, shoulders slouched, head bowed, nursing a drink. With a sigh of relief and sadness Sam approached him. He was somewhat surprised to find Dean here, at this dump of a place in a sketchy part of town. In the past, Dean was usually the Cindy Lou Who to Sam's Grinch during the holidays, and this place was one of the few bars Sam looked in that wasn't decorated up for Christmas, that didn't have Christmas music playing, or patrons in Santa hats, celebrating Christmas Eve. This place catered to the weary and downtrodden, the lonely and depressed.

On the other hand, considering all that had happened, all they had been through, perhaps Sam shouldn't have been surprised at all.

Everyone in the room carried a heavy burden. Sam didn't have to know who they were, but he could see it. The different pains, sorrows and heartaches radiated off of every one of them from the disheveled man at the counter who looked like he might be homeless, to the sad looking older couple in tattered coats, to the heavily tattooed group by the window, the haggard bartender, the middle aged waitress who wore too much make-up to conceal an obvious black eye, to the numerous men who sat alone, even if they sat in a group, drowning their sorrows in amber liquid.

No one looked up or acknowledged Sam as he crossed the space of the room to approach the one whose burden weighed more heavily than anyone else's in the room combined. While everyone probably had terrible problems in their own right—Sam included—Dean was the one person among them who had gone to Hell and back and had the weight of the world thrust upon his weary shoulders that already carried too much.

As Sam slid into the tattered bench seat across from his brother, Sam was suddenly gripped with the fear that Dean might someday soon crumble under all that pressure.

"Hey," Sam murmured quietly.

Dean grunted in his reply and drank another gulp of whisky.

"Where have you been Dean?" Sam asked, sounding harsher than he ever intended, but was too worked up emotionally to amend his tone, "I was looking all over for you. I've been worried sick."

"I've been around," he shrugged, sliding his now empty glass to the edge of the table, avoiding eye contact with his brother as he twisted around to seek out the pathetic looking waitress. When she saw him he shook his glass and set it back down.

"Why'd you take off like that?" Sam tried to swallow back the accusing edge to his voice, but even after finding Dean, he still couldn't shake the initial fear he felt when he emerged from the shower earlier that night to find that Dean, who had been seemingly asleep on his bed, was gone. He didn't even take the Impala, and that small detail was what made Sam fear the worst, that maybe Dean didn't merely leave, but that something terrible might've happened to him. Not always, but every once in a while, since Brower County, and again since Dean's resurrection, Sam had become a bit paranoid like that.

"Couldn't sleep. Needed to be 'lone," Dean rubbed his exhausted eyes with his palms.

"You could've said something before you left, told me where you were going."

"Didn't know where I was goin' 'til I got here."

Sam took in his brother's pale complexion and hollow, bloodshot eyes, and nodded quietly.

The waitress returned with another glass and set it down in front of Dean before turning her body towards Sam. "Can I get you anything?" she asked in a deep, husky voice marred by years of smoking. He noticed some more bruises on her arms and that reminded Sam of one of the many reasons why he hated the holidays. There was so much pain in the world and everyone was supposed to pretend to be jolly just because it was Christmas?

"No thanks," Sam shook his head and gave her a small, polite smile then faced his brother, and tried to meet his gaze. "Dean, hey," he spoke gently, "look at me man, talk to me."

"Nothin' to say," he took another drink.

But that wasn't true. There was plenty to say, too much to say. Too much to talk about, too much to deal with. But on the other hand, maybe for Dean, talking was not the way to go to ease his suffering. His brief, disturbing confession of what happened to him during those four months—_forty years_—in Hell did nothing to lessen his agony, in fact the opposite seemed to be true.

Over the past few weeks since that conversation, he hardly spoke to Sam or anyone for that matter. He just retreated further into himself, his eyes were always downcast, brimming over with guilt and shame and the raw pain that was consuming him. He carried himself differently. He carried himself like a broken man, and he _was_ broken. And Sam was the idiot who let his own problems blind him from seeing it until it was almost too late to help him. Maybe it was too late already.

And awkward silence wrapped itself around them. Sam watched Dean silently self-medicate as though Sam wasn't there.

"So…" Sam cleared his throat, feeling like he would drown in the silence, "uh, I see you didn't even take the car with you. That kind of surprised me." He mentally facepalmed, feeling like an idiot with his lame attempt at conversation. Dean leaving the car behind wasn't surprising as much as it was worrying. The Impala was his refuge once.

"I didn't bring the car because I have no intention of being in any shape to drive," he slurred. He tipped his head back to get the last drop from his glass.

"You've got to stop doing this to yourself man," Sam breathed gently.

Dean glared at him—his eyes dark, serious, surprisingly sober, "You implying I've got a problem or something?"

That wasn't what Sam was implying, not entirely. Though Dean's method of self-medicating was definitely becoming unhealthy. "No, not at all," Sam amended. It was rare that Dean let himself get as drunk as he was. He hated to be vulnerable so he usually avoided going overboard, even after he came back from the dead. Sam was the one who tended to drink himself stupid when he was overwhelmed with emotional turmoil so he inwardly cringed at his hypocrisy when he risked asking, "Do you?"

"What part of 'needed to be alone' didn't you understand Sam?" Dean hissed, signaling to the waitress for another drink.

"Yeah well," Sam shrugged stubbornly, "I need to be with my brother." He spoke with sincerity and looked pleadingly into Dean's haunted eyes, using his little brother magic, also known as the puppy eyes, on him.

Once upon a time, that would've worked and Dean would've caved easily, this time though, Dean just scowled.

"Fuck you Sam."

Sam sighed, "Fine. Whatever."

Dean rolled his shoulders and glared dangerously, waiting for Sam to leave but despite Sam's words of surrender, he didn't move.

"Fine then, I'll fucking go," Dean spat, throwing money on the table to cover his tab. He jumped to his feet and swayed, lurching forward, grasping the table for balance, his inebriated brain not liking the concept of suddenly being vertical.

Sam was on his feet instantly; he placed a steadying hand on Dean's shoulder, "Whoa, easy."

Dean shoved him away, "Fuck off." He staggered a few steps away, almost tripping over a chair behind him, but he managed to keep his footing and stormed out of the bar and into the freezing cold, leaving Sam to stare after him in slight shock.

After a moment of hesitation, Sam stepped out into the frigid cold to follow. He glanced left and then right spotting his brother as he stormed down the icy sidewalk in the opposite direction of where Sam parked the Impala a few blocks away.

"Dean wait!" Sam called after him just as he began pursuing him, mindful of the ice.

Dean pointedly ignored him and actually quickened his pace and didn't pay any attention to where he was going whatsoever. He just had to get away. His momentum literally came crashing down when he bumped into a parking meter, slipped on some ice and fell on his ass. Somehow, thanks to his drunkenness, the unplanned downward motion triggered a sudden onset of nausea and he shifted his body to the side, managing to rid his stomach of some of the alcohol without getting it all over himself.

Coming from the opposite direction was a small group of young people, about Sam's age, maybe a bit younger. Two women in high heeled boots and short skirts that were completely inappropriate for the cold winter weather with garland wrapped around their necks like scarves, and three men, one donning a Santa hat. He was the one who loudly slurred as he pointed mockingly at Dean, "Merry fucking Christmas you fucking drunk!" The rest of the group laughed drunkenly at him as they continued walking.

"Wow, you sure are filled with holiday spirit, aren't you? Assholes!" Sam snapped at them on Dean's behalf, fuming at their hypocrisy. Of course Sam's words went to deaf ears. He knelt beside his brother and asked gently, "Are you OK?"

By then Dean had stopped retching and sat on the curb, his knees pulled to his chest, his arms folded on his knees and his head resting in his arms. He took in a deep breath, lifted his head, squared his shoulders, slowly rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and nodded, giving Sam a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah," he whispered.

Sam wasn't convinced. For one thing his eyes were sparkling with unshed tears that were threatening to escape, and there was shame, and guilt and torment reflected in them. Ever since his roadside confession a few weeks ago, the only thing new about that haunted look in his eyes was how much more intensely those caged emotions burned in his hazel-green irises. The pain reflected so deeply and so strongly that even though Sam's glimpse into his brother's eyes was fleeting, it was enough to take Sam's breath away.

It was amazing Dean wasn't locked in a padded room somewhere, huddled in a corner raving like a lunatic or shut down in a state of catatonia considering all he had been through. Even though it was clear that Dean was barely keeping it together, thanks to the alcohol in his system that lowered his defenses enough to allow Sam to see past the mask Dean so carefully built to hide behind, Sam was in awe of his brother's strength.

"Come on," Sam murmured, breathless, "It's freezing out here." He reached for Dean's elbow to help him up, but Dean flinched away at his touch.

"Just gimmie a minute," Dean's voice quivered as he spoke and he turned his head away from Sam.

Sam rose to his feet and tried to force himself to look away and give him the private moment he so desperately wanted. But he wasn't about to leave him alone. Not in this state, no matter how badly he desired his solitude. Maybe later, when he was sober. At the moment, Sam was worried about what Dean might do if left to his own devices because even though he was fighting valiantly against it, Dean was indeed falling apart right there on the curb. Dean could be mighty self-destructive when he was drunk and/or depressed, and wasn't that just the understatement of the century?

A soft sob escaped Dean's throat and Sam bit his lip, glancing over in his direction. He backed up a few steps, watching as Dean's shoulders shook. He tried to look away, he tried to give him privacy, he wanted to—it was hard to watch the floodgates open, to watch his strong, confident, brother break—but he couldn't.

And so Sam stood there and watched Dean try and pull himself together. Watched him work to steady his breathing. Watched him run a hand over his face to wipe away the tears. Watched him take a shuddering breath as he massaged his temples and studied his feet. Sam wanted to say something to help make it all right, but what could he say? How do you console a man who was completely broken, who was haunted by an experience too terrible to imagine?

Dean was right after all—there really was nothing to say.

*-*-*

That night after getting back to the motel Dean practically passed out into a deep sleep. However his sleep was hardly peaceful, but Sam doubted Dean had a nightmare-free sleep since before he died. Sam knew what it was like to be plagued with nightmares. Even now, three years later, Sam would have the occasional nightmare about Jess burning on the ceiling. It usually happened on certain nights, like anniversaries and holidays that were special to them, like Christmas. Which was why Sam couldn't sleep.

Jess loved Christmas—it was her favorite holiday and she loved to tease Sam about his sour attitude towards it. She affectionately called him Sam Grinchester every time he expressed his dislike for the holidays.

But Sam could understand why Jess had been so positive and cheerful about Christmas. She grew up in a stable home, came from a big, loving family—of _course_ Christmas would've brought her warm memories. The Christmas he spent with her and her family was filled with joy and love and Sam remembered finding it overwhelming in a good way.

The Winchesters had shitty Christmases, or at least Sam thought so. They had no home. Their home was the Impala; they spent most Christmases in crappy hotel rooms, often alone. And with a hunter's salary it wasn't like their dad could give them much in the way of presents, not that it mattered. Living out of a car often meant leaving stuff behind. It wasn't just the whole lack of decent presents that irked him. He didn't care too much about that part, not really—one good thing about their nomadic lifestyle meant neither of them grew up to be materialistic—it was just that the commercialism and false sentiment of Christmas always seemed to rub it in his face that the Winchesters were a broken family, that they were the have-nots, they were outsiders and always would be.

That was why Sam never quite understood why Dean had loved Christmas so much. Living on the fringe of society always had left Sam longing for normal, wishing he could experience Christmas like normal kids did. As he grew older, the years spent on the outside looking in had only left Sam jaded during the holidays. Eventually, the mere notion of Christmas faded from their lives, only existing as something that the normal, ignorant people celebrated in December. At least that was how it was for Sam and John. Dean however, always tried to maintain some sort of Christmas tradition over the holidays, often to the chagrin of Sam and John.

Sam found himself regretting that part. It wouldn't have killed them to humor Dean a bit more. It wasn't right that Sam had to wait until Dean was dying from that stupid deal he made before he gave Dean some sort of Christmas. Even then Dean had to practically beg him for it. But it had made Dean happy, and in turn Sam was happy to see the joy in his brother's eyes.

Lying on his back, alone with his thoughts, memories and regrets, Sam listened to Dean's quiet snores as he slept off his hangover. His sleep was restless enough that somehow he managed to kick off his covers and bunch the sheets in knots at his feet, and every once in a while Dean would whimper, or mutter a soft 'no' causing Sam to wince in sympathy.

It occurred to Sam right then and there that it was Christmas Eve and Dean had yet to even mention the word Christmas and Sam suddenly felt the impact of what it meant.

_OK, so yeah, Christmas might not be 'the most wonderful time of the year' like the song says, _Dean had said when Sam was little, _but it _is _the most hopeful._

Though a distant memory, the words played in Sam's head so clearly that it was as though a twelve-year-old Dean was right there, speaking to him. Sam sat up quickly, turned on the light and ran a hand over his face as he watched his brother, lost in the throes of a nightmare.

Even during the Christmas after Dad died, with their father's final words hanging over Dean's head, with the knowledge of why Dad died in the first place, Dean still managed to hope. Sam was depressed that year, downright miserable with random, painful visions, and fearing that he was going to turn into something evil. Dean was depressed as well, still reeling with guilt over Dad's death and still fearing that he would fail at saving Sam from whatever dark destiny his connection to the demon gave him. But in spite of that all, he still surprised Sam that year when he woke up to see that Dean got a little Christmas tree, small enough to rival the one in "A Charlie Brown Christmas", and had a present for Sam wrapped in the color comics of the newspaper and he greeted Sam with a smile on his face, a mug of eggnog and a "Merry Christmas, Sammy!"

All Dean got for Christmas that year was an eye roll from Sam and a slightly sour "Yeah, you too."

"Oh come on Sammy, don't be such a Scrooge. Life sucks but at least we've got each other, right? We should celebrate that fact because well… it's Christmas. And I made the eggnog extra saucy."

No matter how bad things got in the past, Dean still celebrated Christmas. He was still able to put their troubles on pause to celebrate a holiday that to Dean meant _hope _and _family_. But this year…

Sam blinked slowly as he watched his brother toss and turn in his sleep. So much had happened to them, to Dean, that even after being rescued from Hell by an _angel_, even though Dean was back from the dead and they had each other again, he had lost that hope that Christmas somehow managed to bring him even when times were shitty.

"I'm sorry Dean," Sam whispered, "I wish… I wish there was something I could do to help you. I wish you'd let me try."

Suddenly Dean gasped as though he had been holding his breath for a while. He sat up, fully awake and breathing heavily. Sam watched him wince from the headache he undoubtedly had, watched him rub his eyes and work to erase his nightmare from his mind.

"Hey," Dean grunted, glancing in Sam's direction but not meeting his gaze, "Couldn't sleep?"

Sam shook his head, "No."

"So you were watching me sleep? Dude, that's creepy," Dean shook his head.

"Dean," Sam chided wearily. He sighed, "So, you sleep well?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged, "Sure." He reached into his duffle and pulled out his bottle of Jack and took a swig, "I feel so much better." It was an obvious lie. If the nightmare wasn't any indication, Dean's rough voice and lines of pain on his forehead was a dead giveaway that he felt like crap.

After a remarkably long awkward silence, Sam cleared his throat, "So, I guess it's uh, officially Christmas now. What did you want to do for uh… you know… Christmas, this year?"

Dean gaped at him incredulously, "What?"

"Christmas," Sam repeated.

He snorted bitterly, "Christmas? How about nothing? It's all a load of bullshit, so what's the point?"

"But… you loved Christmas," Sam couldn't help but exclaim. As much as he himself hated the holiday, Dean's lack of Christmas spirit was weird, threw him slightly off balance and Sam realized how much he had come to rely on it every year.

"Since when?"

"Uh, since always."

After a pause, Dean shrugged dismissively, "I don't remember."

"Really?" This took Sam by surprise. Dean just glanced at him sheepishly, keeping his eyes downcast. Always downcast, as though he was too ashamed to look anyone in the eye anymore, now that his secret was out.

"I do remember, sort of, but not really. I mean, it was a long time ago," Dean murmured. "A long time since…" He shook his head, wincing as he did so and then slowly ran a hand down his face.

_Since you had a Christmas,_ Sam thought, allowing his mind to fill in what was unspoken. For Dean, it had been a long time.

"Anyway," Dean rubbed a kink in the back of his neck, "I don't see a point. It's crap. Just some stupid excuse for retailers to have a sale and shit. All glitz and glamour, no substance unless it's in the form of false sentiment bullshit."

"That's not true," Sam blurted, surprising himself because in spite of his Grinchiness, a part of him believed it. The part of him that was Dean's brother.

"That's a little weird," Dean muttered, taking another swig of Jack, "coming from you."

Sam had to agree but he said nothing.

Another long awkward silence. While pretending to do some research on his laptop, Sam watched Dean flip through the channels on the TV, but at six in the morning on Christmas Day, nothing was really on unless it was Christmas related. Dean eventually turned it off angrily and made himself some coffee. At least he wasn't turning to the bottle this time.

"The first Christmas I remember, I was about four and you were… wow you were only eight," Sam said finally.

Dean gave him an odd look, "OK, random."

Sam raised his eyebrows with a shrug but other than that he ignored him, "anyway, I remember Dad had to take us to some mall, I think it was because you needed new winter boots… or maybe I did… and I wanted to see the mall Santa but Dad said no. See, I was afraid that Santa wouldn't come because he wouldn't know where we were since we traveled so much and the hotel we were staying at didn't have a chimney. I wandered off to go find Santa, but got lost… you don't remember that?"

Dean shook his head.

"I remember being terrified because I didn't know where you were. I couldn't find Santa and I couldn't find you or Dad and I felt like I was wandering around forever," Sam chuckled slightly. "Dad was pissed, I was so upset but you..."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dean huffed, a little irritated.

"It was getting too quiet in here and apparently I'm in a nostalgic mood. Besides, you said you can't really remember loving Christmas so…" he shrugged his shoulders casually.

"Can we talk about something else?"

"No," Sam grinned mischievously. He was actually glad that Dean was frustrated and a little angry—it sure beat traumatized and depressed. Seeing the annoyance in Dean's eyes was much better than seeing the horror, pain, guilt and shame that had been ever present in his eyes over the last couple of weeks. Anything was better than that.

Dean muttered something under his breath set down his coffee on the bedside table. "Whatever," he sighed as he absently looked through his duffel. He found his homemade EMF meter, pulled it out and flopped down on his bed. A ghost of a smirk crossed his lips and he murmured, "I still can't believe you kept this after I… you know. I mean, there are better ones out there and…"

"I'd never throw that thing out," Sam exclaimed, "besides, that thing has come in handy so many times. Even if it didn't, you _made_ that thing. I don't care if there are 'better' ones out there. You made that. Friggin' genius dude."

A soft puff of air escaped Dean's nose as he stared off into space thoughtfully, "Really?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, wishing he had told him that sooner. Sam may have been more book smart than Dean, but that didn't mean Dean was any less smart than Sam.

"Dad didn't seem to think so," Dean sounded a little bitter.

Sam's eyebrows pulled together in confusion, "Huh?"

"Made this for Dad originally. A Christmas present as a matter of fact," Dean shrugged, "He didn't want it. He already had one and liked that one better."

"Really? When did that happen?"

"You were at Stanford," Dean was dismissive, "anyway, it doesn't matter. Now as you were saying?"

"So you _want_ to hear my story then?"

"Beats listening to the crappy Christmas songs on TV, and that's all I can find on the radio lately," Dean flopped on his bed and began to fiddle with the EMF meter, "So you can yap about whatever you want, I don't care. It's not like I'll be listening. I've been meaning to tweak this thing, y'know, make some improvements and stuff. May as well do it now."

"OK," Sam knew though that Dean would still listen, even if he didn't want to. Dean always listened. He spared Dean a glance, watched him focus on his unnecessary task that was really only a distraction before he leaned back against the headboard of his bed and continued, "Where was I anyway? Oh yeah, I got lost. So the mall was really crowded because I think it was Christmas Eve, or damn close to it. No one really noticed me. It was crowded enough I think everyone might've assumed I was attached to whoever I might've been standing beside and they probably assumed I belonged to someone else nearby. But then I started crying…"

"Dude, you're such a girl," Dean mocked quietly, his voice lacking any real humor. But he was trying, and for that Sam was both relieved and grateful.

"Give me a break, I was four," Sam huffed, rolling his eyes. "I cried really loud and finally security found me at about the same time you found me."

"Yeah well, you cried really loud back then and I'd have known your cry anywhere," Dean said.

"I thought you didn't remember," Sam exclaimed.

Dean ducked his head sheepishly, fiddling with his EMF meter like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, "Dude, I'm not a friggin' amnesiac. I mean I do remember sort of, not this story specifically, I guess I do vaguely—it was just so long ago…. but I remember you. I don't think a millennia in Hell could change that, let alone forty years. I remember how you sounded when you cried back then, or when you were scared."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, feeling a small lump in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying not to think about what Dean went through, trying not to find any significance on how candidly Dean just spoke about Hell. First time in weeks. Was that progress or regression or nothing at all? "Anyway," Sam continued, "you were the one to find me just as some security guard managed to grab me to ask me what was wrong. And you, never one to trust anyone outside our small circle of friends and family, pulled me away from him like he was some sort of child molester." He saw Dean give a small grin. "Even at eight you were so protective of me."

"Since you were born," Dean shrugged.

"Right," Sam nodded with affection and bitterness. It was that protective nature of Dean that landed him in Hell in the first place. Dean was suffering and ultimately it was Sam's fault. He took a deep breath and exhaled, subconsciously releasing his own guilt over Dean's fate and how Sam had been handling Dean's pain since his return. He cleared his throat and went on, "You grabbed me and ran. Dad wasn't with us. You had apparently noticed I was missing and went off to find me by yourself and then got us both lost. I think that was why he was so mad."

"I took you to see Santa Claus, didn't I?" Dean asked softly.

"Yeah, you did. You said I should be able to see Santa because I wanted to so badly," Sam grinned as his story seemed to spark a distant memory in Dean.

"I also figured that was where Dad would look for us," Dean added thoughtfully.

"And he did, before I got a chance to see Santa," Sam sighed, "he was so mad that we wandered off that he still wouldn't let us."

"That wasn't fair," Dean murmured, "you were only four. You should've been able to see him, if that was what you wanted, even if it was just some fake mall Santa. He really didn't let you see him?"

Sam shook his head, "I think he said sometime later that he didn't want to set me up for disappointment. Of course that only made me feel worse, but looking back it made sense. If I saw Santa and told him what I wanted for Christmas, and told him where we were staying… well I wouldn't get anything because, Dad could barely afford new winter boots for us, let alone nice presents. At least it kept up the illusion that Santa was real for a few more years. But you know what you told me?" Sam asked. Dean shook his head. "You said that we were really lucky because while we didn't get the nicest toys—and what Dad did give us was pretty crappy, I think he bought them second hand but looking back I guess it was probably the best he could afford—we had each other which was more than a lot of people could say, and you said I had the bestest big brother in the world. You were right on that one…"

Dean scoffed at that sentiment and rolled his eyes, disbelieving.

Ignoring Dean's self-depreciating attitude he continued, "On Christmas Day that year we 'borrowed' a Crazy Carpet or whatever those things were called, from some kids back yard and we spent the entire day sliding down the hill. It might not have been very Christmassy, but it was an awesome day now that I think about it. Because of you."

"OK, great. So is the Hallmark Christmas moment over now?" Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam chose to continue ignoring Dean's sardonic jibes. "Hey Dean? Did you still believe in Santa Claus back then?"

Dean shook his head, "No, I stopped believing in anything like that when I was four. I remember that much."

"Oh," Sam murmured. "I was eight when I stopped believing."

"Yeah, that was when I finally told you Santa wasn't real."

"And I found Dad's journal."

"That was a shitty Christmas," Dean said, shaking his head.

"You remember that?"

"Sort of but you probably remember it better than I do. All I remember was being scared shitless that Dad might not come home and you finding the journal."

"Really?" Sam asked, "You were scared?"

"Shitless."

"I didn't know that. I mean, I eventually figured you might've been worried, but you didn't really give any indication that you were terrified."

"I was always scared when Dad was on a hunt, and that year he swore he'd be back before Christmas and he wasn't," Dean confessed. He absently clutched the amulet around his neck.

"I remember I was mad at him for lying about what he did, and being mad at you for lying on his behalf," Sam said. "I was scared too, especially since I knew what he was doing. I was afraid something might've happened to him, but you… you tried convincing me that Dad was OK, that Dad was some superhero. You even tried to convince me that Dad had come during the night by stealing presents from some girl and trying to make me thing they were from Dad…" Sam's voice trailed off. He had no idea that Dean was scared too. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize his memories and searched them for any indication that Dean was just as terrified as Sam was. How could he have not seen it?

Dean answered his internal question, "I wanted you to believe that everything was OK Sammy. I thought if I made you believe it, I could believe it too. But Dad didn't come back. Not on Christmas, not on the day after…" He shrugged, "And I wanted you to have a Christmas, you still wanted Christmas back then, and I wanted you to have Christmas. I'm just sorry that the presents I stole were for a girl. They should've labeled their presents better—I swear she had a boy's name."

"At least that girl got her presents back," Sam shrugged.

"Yeah because you made me."

"Pretty clever though, the way you re-wrapped them and put on the tag, 'From Santa—sorry it was late'," Sam chuckled, "Worst wrapping job ever Dean."

"Didn't have much to work with I guess."

"That was the year I gave you that," Sam tilted his chin to the amulet around Dean's neck. Dean stopped fiddling with it and let it drop against his chest.

"Yeah, I know," Dean looked away from him, "I had it with me you know…" He stopped as though he was suddenly struck dumb. He took a deep shaky breath and bowed his head, pressing his palms against his forehead, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

Sam cocked his head, frowning at the distant tone to his voice. He wasn't sure what Dean was talking about because Dean never took it off. So why did he speak as though having it with him was some big revelation? The only time Sam ever saw him without it were the times when Dean was in the hospital and the doctors removed it, or when that shapeshifter stole it, and finally when Sam took it off after Dean died.

Unless of course Dean was talking about something different…

"Dean…?"

"In Hell. I still had it in Hell," Dean's voice broke slightly. "Alastair tried to remove it, but he couldn't and even when they… even when there was nothing left of me, somehow… somehow I still had it. It reminded me of you, reminded me of why I was there…"

"Dean… god Dean I am so sorry that you had to…"

"Sometimes, knowing it was there, knowing I still had it was the only thing that got me through the day, that helped me refuse Alastair's offer. At first it reminded me what was at stake, and kept me human because when I felt it around my neck, I thought of you. It reminded me that I did not want you or anyone else to go through what I was going through. It made me still care.

"Even on days when… when it was too much to bear, when I couldn't even remember my own name because the pain was so bad, this thing around my neck, somehow gave me a reason to say no and most of the time I didn't know why. Eventually I forgot why all together… I just wanted it to stop…" Dean swiped at his eyes and let out a shaky breath.

After a moment Dean got up and disappeared into the bathroom. Sam could hear him turn on the water, but he knew it was to disguise another sound because he could hear the sound of retching, and was pretty sure he could hear him crying as well.

"_What if something happened and Dad's not coming back because he's hurt or worse?"_

"_Don't worry Sam, he's the best hunter there is, he'll be back. He probably had to stop somewhere because of the weather."_

"_Christmas sucks."_

"_Don't say that Sammy, it doesn't suck. No matter what happens, we'll always have each other right? Dad will be back."_

"_How would you know Dean?"_

"_Because it's Christmas, and OK, so yeah, Christmas might not be 'the most wonderful time of the year' like the song says, it _is _the most hopeful."_

Sam let the memory of that Christmas play in his head, if for no other reason than to drown out the sounds coming from the bathroom. He just wished that Dean could feel that same sense of hope that he did when he was twelve. Dean may have been scared, and had lied about it, but Sam still believed that Dean meant what he had said about hope. He believed that once upon a time, before he died and went to Hell, Dean really believed it too.

Sam would do anything to help him believe it again.

*-*-*

Dean had stayed in the bathroom for a long time. Several times Sam wanted to check on him, make sure he was all right but he knew better than that. He knew to give Dean some more space. Sam doubted Dean had any intention to reveal a bit more about Hell like he did and figured it had to be damn hard to relive that time.

After about an hour or so Dean emerged from the bathroom, "Man I think that shower was just exactly the thing I needed!" He stretched and grinned, "Totally refreshing! I think I'm ready for some grub. You in?"

Dean was overcompensating and Sam could see right through it, but he didn't let on.

"Sure," Sam returned the phony smile.

They quickly got dressed for the day and Dean snatched the keys from the dresser where Sam had dropped them the night before, "I'll drive," Dean smirked, tossing them in the air and catching them in one swift motion.

Yep, definitely overcompensating. At least Dean was trying, Sam supposed. One thing was for certain—Dean was not as good at putting up the proverbial mask as he used to be.

As they walked out to the Impala, a young couple emerged from the room two doors down. They gave a friendly wave and the woman said cheerfully, "Merry Christmas!"

While Dean stiffened and gave a small, polite nod and climbed into the car as quick as he could, Sam surprised himself by smiling back and saying, "You too! Merry Christmas!" Wow he was really going overboard trying to help Dean believe in Christmas, and all it represented to him, again. The strange thing was, that while Sam normally would've given them the reaction Dean had just given, Sam felt his words were actually somewhat sincere. He paused a moment to reflect on that before shrugging it off and climbing into the Impala.

They drove to a quaint looking diner, practically the only place still open on Christmas Day. Like just about everywhere else in town, it was decorated up for the holidays, with generic cutouts of Santa Claus and Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman adorning the windows. Both Sam and Dean rolled their eyes at the décor, but there really was no escaping it. Even the waitress they had was an overly bubbly Christmas enthusiast who wore a Santa hat on her head, a green Christmas bow stuck to her apron next to her nametag and an angel button (complete with a flashing halo) on her lapel.

"Man I wish Christmas would just go away," Dean lamented grumpily after the waitress gave them their food with a cheerful 'Merry Christmas', "all this stupid false sentiment is driving me crazy."

"I don't think it's completely fake," Sam shrugged.

"Sam will you stop trying to convince me that Christmas is the wonderful holiday it claims to be? We both know it's a lie."

"Well it's weird seeing you being the Grinch in the family. It's supposed to be my job," Sam smirked, attempting to lighten Dean's roller coaster of a mood.

"Then why not just be glad I've given up pretending it means something instead of keep up appearances. Because I've never liked Christmas."

"Yes, you have," Sam insisted. "You always have."

"No, I tried to, I pretended to for your sake, I even let myself believe that there was something to this damn holiday, but now I know better, so just stop."

"You pretended to like Christmas for my sake?"

Dean nodded, "You deserve to have a nice, warm wonderful Christmas that everyone else seems to have. You wanted to live a normal life so badly, so I tried to give you that. Normal people celebrate the holidays."

"You didn't always pretend Dean," Sam said. He could think of two instances when he was definitely not keeping up appearances to maintain some sort of tradition. Last year, Sam could tell Dean really wanted his last Christmas on earth to be something special, even if it was just a measly Winchester style Christmas where a chocolate bar that cost a dollar was considered a good Christmas present. The other time was when Sam was twelve. He only knew that because when Dean was hurt and unconscious, Dean sometimes talked in his sleep.

"But I did."

"Hey, do you remember that one year when we stayed at Pastor Jim's for Christmas because you and Dad had to hunt a wendigo, I think, that was killing people a couple of towns over?"

Dean shook his head, "No. Not really. And can you please spare me from another Lifetime moment?"

"No, I won't," Sam insisted, "Let me refresh your memory. I think you need to hear this." As he said it he realized that he too needed to hear it. "It was the closest thing to a real Christmas we ever had. Pastor Jim had a real Christmas tree, we actually had _stockings_ hung on the friggin' chimney. You have to remember that! There were actual presents under the tree—practical of course because we didn't have room for much else. I was twelve and it was probably the first time that it actually felt like the kind of Christmas normal people had.

"It was the first time since I was eight that I actually looked forward to Christmas. But then… you and Dad went off for a couple of days to hunt that wendigo. You guys came back on Christmas Eve… Dad was covered in blood…" Sam hesitated, "your blood. He was holding you in his arms, on the verge of collapsing under your weight. The wendigo got you."

"Have to admit, those wendigos have good taste. I must smell like a delicacy…"

"Dean!"

"Is there a point to this story? Because I do remember now and it turned out to be one shitty Christmas spent in a lousy hospital that smelled like old people. I doubt the hospital stay was even necessary either. I'm surprised that wasn't the one to finally turn me off the holiday…"

"So you admit you weren't always pretending?"

"No, but I should've stopped trying that year to make something out of it. It was stupid and I'm sorry to put you through that every year. I only wanted to try and make you and Dad happy and it was stupid."

"You know what? I don't think you were faking. I think you used to believe in it," Sam said, "Now can you just shut up and let me finish? No one says you have to listen."

They were silent a moment. Over the loudspeaker Andy Williams was singing, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" and that was enough to make Dean frown and say, "OK go ahead with your story. I guess I do sort of wonder where you're going with this."

"You were hurt pretty badly, you lost a lot of blood," Sam murmured, "Dad was freaked, and I mean _freaked_. I thought, because of that alone, that you were going to die."

"I'm like a cat," Dean smirked bitterly, "Nine fucking lives man."

"Dean!" Sam rolled his eyes, but it was true. How many times, not including Brower County and the Trickster's game, had Dean had a genuine brush with Death? He must have nine lives, or an angel watching over him. _And we know that to be true,_ Sam thought with a smile.

"You really thought I was going to die? If I remember correctly it was just a scratch," Dean shrugged.

"Try several 'scratches' that were all bad enough to get stitches. One of them, if it was just a little bit deeper you would've been dead before Dad got you to Pastor Jim's," Sam exclaimed in the same exasperated tone he always had when Dean downplayed a serious injury.

"And you guys managed to stitch me up just fine before I could bleed out. End of story."

"Yeah except for the part where you got a bad infection and we spent Christmas day in the hospital," Sam added.

"Oh yeah, kind of forgot about that part," he chuckled wryly.

"You were either unconscious or delirious with a high fever for most of it."

"Oh. So your point to this story? Because it wasn't the first time I ended up in the hospital, and won't be the last so I don't see…"

"You sang Christmas Carols in your sleep."

"I did?" There was genuine surprise in Dean's expression.

"You sounded… you sounded like you did when I was four. Remember? Dad had grounded us for getting lost trying to find that mall Santa, and I was crying myself to sleep that night, and you sang me Christmas songs until I fell asleep. You sounded just like that, so young and small," Sam murmured.

Dean snorted, "Oh please." His cheeks turned a little pink from embarrassment.

"When you were unconscious and delirious you actually wished us a Merry Christmas," Sam said. "That had to have meant something to you."

"OK, now you're making this up," Dean frowned.

"Later, when you were still really sick, you even apologized for ruining Christmas, but you didn't," Sam continued, "Dean you tend to be really honest in your sleep."

"I don't talk in my sleep."

"Sometimes you do," Sam admitted, "Not always, but sometimes."

"And when I do you eavesdrop? That's creepy, dude, creepy."

"Most of the time I can barely understand you. Anyway," Sam decided to let that little conversation drop, he didn't want to start a useless tangent, "Dad, Pastor Jim and I… we were really scared for you and when you woke up for the first time after your fever finally broke you… you still seemed more concerned with ruining Christmas than your own well being. I still don't know what it is, but Christmas still means something to you."

"Past tense Sammy, _'meant'_, past tense," Dean corrected. "Things have obviously changed."

"I guess they have," Sam agreed quietly. "But that year… that year, as scared as we were, and as crappy as it was spending Christmas in the hospital instead of Pastor Jim's beautifully decorated house, that year you actually convinced me that Christmas meant something, even if it only lasted a moment."

"How? Because I almost died and then I didn't and that had to have been some miracle because it was Jesus' birthday and shit?" Dean scoffed. "Quick! Someone grab this man a box of tissues because the Winchester Family Christmas is going to be a fucking Hallmark tearjerker!"

"Dean will you please just shut up? I get that this is making you uncomfortable, but it's awkward for me too. But I'm trying to help you in the only way I can think of right now, OK? You're hurting, and your barely keeping it together, I can see it. I don't even have to be your brother to see it it's so obvious. You've been through a lot…"

"No shit Sherlock," Dean hissed.

"And I'm amazed at how you're coping…"

"If you can call this coping…" Dean muttered under his breath, not intending for Sam to hear it, but he heard it anyway.

"But I wish you'd just stop pretending that you're fine when you're obviously not fine because when you do you can be a real jerk!"

"Bitch." The response was automatic and full of apologetic affection.

Sam couldn't help but smile at that, "And you're right, sort of. I still think your recovery that day was miraculous, but not because it was Christmas. It was what you said after."

"And what was that?"

Sam paused, remembering that moment as though it was a movie playing in his head. Dean had looked so sick, and weak and pale, like he was still knocking at death's door.

"_Are you crying Sammy?"_

"_No."_

"_Yeah you are."_

"_You could've died."_

"_But I didn't."_

"_But you could've."_

"_No, I couldn't. You know why? Because it's Christmas."_

"_What does that have to do with anything Dean?"_

"_Because getting sick already meant I ruined this Christmas…"_

"_You didn't ruin…"_

"_Shut up Sammy, I'm talking and I'm really tired so let me talk so I can go back to sleep."_

"_OK, sorry Dean, go on…"_

"_You're such a drama queen with that sigh Sammy. So as I was saying, getting sick meant I already ruined _this _Christmas, but if I died then I would've downright _killed _Christmas and I'd be damned if I ruined Christmas altogether. With our string of bad luck I think we were due for a Christmas miracle, don't you think?"_

"_You didn't ruin Christmas Dean because it already sucked long before you got hurt…"_

"_Don't say that Sammy."_

"_Why not? It's true."_

"_Look I know that you were looking forward to having a real Christmas celebration at Pastor Jim's and I know you're disappointed because we're stuck here in this damn hospital. Goodness knows I was looking forward to some Christmas turkey myself. I'm sorry it didn't happen, but who says we can't celebrate Christmas another day? Who dictates it has to be on the twenty-fifth? Anyway why should all that stuff matter anyway?"_

"_It doesn't."_

"_Exactly. All that matters is I'm OK, Dad's OK, you're OK, we're together, we've got Pastor Jim with us… we've got each other and we've got prospects of a brand new year coming up. It might not be the most wonderful time of the year…"_

"…_but it _is _the most hopeful."_

They had finished the last but of the phrase in unison. Sam had said it grudgingly, complete with an eye roll, and Dean, while his voice was weak and barely audible, he was sincere. He said it almost every year until it became a cliché, but Dean always meant it. The last time Sam heard him say it was the year before Sam went to Stanford.

"You said something about it being a hopeful time of year, about being thankful we had each other."

"Oh how things have changed," Dean sighed wistfully, "It's just us now."

"'_Us_' being the keyword," Sam added. "If it weren't for Castiel pulling you out of Hell, it would've been just me."

"We didn't always have each other though," Dean pointed out. "When you were at Stanford, I spent those Christmases alone."

"Really?"

"Dad always had a hunt on Christmas. I think he found them on purpose—he was more of a Grinch than you were and any excuse to get away was good enough for him. I think I went to Bobby's one year, I guess that was OK, 'cept I had the flu that year. The year before I came and got you and we went on the road again, Dad went on a hunt of his own and left me with a different hunt in a different state. Montana I think… or maybe Idaho. Doesn't matter. I spent Christmas day that year freezing my ass off in the Impala."

"Why?"

"No money for a place to stay. Not that it mattered. There was a nasty storm and I hit some ice trying to avoid a deer and got stuck in the ditch. I was on a remote road, kind of hidden, there was no cell reception, and no one found me until the next day."

Sam guiltily remembered that Christmas. He spent it with Jess and her family. Christmas night was spent curled up in her bed with her body pressed next to his. It was warm and comforting. He suddenly found himself missing Jess like crazy, and feeling guilty because his last Christmas with Jess was the best he had and Dean wasn't a part of it. Instead, Dean was stranded on the side of the road freezing his ass off.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry Sam," Dean sighed, "I mean let's face it, we've had crappy Christmases."

"Yeah, but… that doesn't mean this year has to suck, does it?"

"Right, because it's not like we have anything to worry about now."

"Don't be so sarcastic," Sam sighed, "Every Christmas we were together, you were able to somehow put your worries aside and celebrate. When we were little and were grounded for wandering off, you still sang Christmas songs to comfort me, when Dad was late coming home from a hunt and we were scared, you still got us a tree and gave me a Christmas, even if it did come in the form of a stolen Holiday Barbie," Sam noticed a small smile cross Dean's lips at that, "When you were sick and in the hospital you still insisted we celebrate Christmas as a family, even if it was two days later. Even after Dad was gone… and again when you were _dying_, we still had Christmas, even though in the traditional sense they were crappy, but we still had each other, we still had something to hope for. Why should this year be any different?"

"This sounds really weird coming from you Mr. Grinch," Dean grinned weakly.

"You were saved from _Hell_ Dean. I can't imagine what it's like and what you're going through, and I know you've got a lot more on your plate than you've ever had before, I know that I'm part of your burden, I know that next year is uncertain and maybe even hopeless, but we don't know that for sure and most importantly, you're alive again. I've got my brother back. That's got to mean something. I think that's a cause for celebration."

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way… but I don't. I still don't know why I was chosen, after what I did?"

"It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you…"

"But you should blame me!" Dean snapped, "I don't know how you can even look at me considering…"

"Dean!" Sam hissed, "I can't blame you because you did what you had to do to survive. No one else could've held on as long…"

"Doesn't matter," Dean shook his head. "Can we not talk about this?"

Sam nodded, "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"I wish…" Dean's voice trailed off and he sighed.

"What?"

"Nothing," he smiled wanly. "Thanks for trying to cheer me up and trying to help me find the Christmas spirit or whatever, Sammy."

"Did it work?"

"Not really," Dean shrugged, "But I do see what you're getting at. At least we have each other and I know I never thought we'd be able to spend another Christmas together again. I guess I should be thankful."

"I am," Sam said.

Dean gave him a smile and glanced away thoughtfully, sarcastic jibes aside, Dean seemed contemplative during their entire conversations. Dean was staring at a crocheted angel ornament on the little Christmas tree next to their table. On the loudspeaker, Judy Garland's soft passionate voice filled the diner.

_Have yourself a Merry little Christmas, let your heart be light,_

_next year all our troubles will be out of sight._

_Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas make the Yuletide gay,_

_next year all our troubles will be miles away._

_Once again as in olden days, happy golden days of yore,_

_faithful friends who were dear to us will be near to us once more._

_Someday soon we all will be together if the fates allow,_

_until then we'll have to muddle through somehow…_

_so have yourself a merry little Christmas now_

Sam watched Dean listen to the song. He knew he was listening because of the way he seem to subtly react to the words. It was such a common Christmas song that Sam hardly noticed it anymore but right then it was as though he was hearing it for the first time and he could tell Dean seemed to feel the same way. It made Sam think about Dad, and Jess, Mom, Pastor Jim, Caleb and Dean and all the other people they cared about who died. It made him so thankful that Dean was back that he could hardly breathe.

It made him think of how bleak their lives were, and how dark and dangerous the road ahead was for them, the impending apocalypse, the demon blood tainting him, the memories of Hell that plagued Dean, the angels and the demons and the war. But somehow the damn Christmas song touched Sam in a way that filled him with hope. After all they went through and all they had yet to endure, surely there had to be some purpose, surely there was a light at the end of the tunnel _somewhere—_be it in this life or the next, because if there wasn't, what was the point?

By telling Dean those stories, Sam sort of understood that maybe that was what Dean had been trying to tell him about Christmas. Yeah, things sucked right now, and they could never have a 'normal' Christmas, but they had each other, and there was still hope for the future and if there was ever a time to be able to be still and reflect on that, it was Christmastime.

At least they didn't have to worry about Christmas shopping and stuff like the normal people did. Sam already had what he wanted for Christmas and he was sitting right there across from him.

Sam watched Dean's eyes sparkle with moisture. He could see a subtle shift in his expression, his body language, his eyes. He seemed… lighter somehow. Still heavily burdened, still haunted, but lighter. He took a deep shuddering breath and then smiled, a real genuine smile that actually reached his eyes for the first time in weeks. A tear escaped and he wiped it away with a slight chuckle that was on the verge of frantic.

"Hey Sam?" Dean asked, his voice broken.

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas."

"You too."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

*-*-* _The End_ *-*-*

**A/N**OK I was really worried about this one. It's hard to write a sentimental fic about the Winchesters and still remain in character. I hope I did them justice. I know they were probably a bit out of character throughout, but on the other hand, even the Winchesters get sentimental once in a while, it's rare but it happens. I also found incorporating the Winchesters at 8, 12 and 25 (and then some) really, _really_ difficult. But that's part of what makes this a challenge. I had meant to have more traditional flashbacks, but I felt that breaking it up affected the overall flow. I really hoped this somehow worked.

The title comes from the Christmas Carol "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" but I find Judy Garland's version of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" worked so well for this fic. I wasn't planning to include lyrics to anything in this but the song just haunted me as I wrote this and the lyrics to Judy Garland's version are slightly different from other renditions in such a way that really did fit this fic well. Also, to be honest, I was stuck on the ending- at the rate I was going this could've gone on forever. As it is, this is the longest one shot I've ever written. I'm still not too crazy about the ending, but I thought that the song basically summarized what I had been trying to say in this fic so I figured it worked. If you get a chance, listen to her version, it's so beautiful and sad and hopeful at the same time.

I put a lot of time and effort into this so thank you so much for taking the time to read. Now please, do a girl a favor and let me know what you think, good or bad. I've always craved constructive criticism like a drug so… yeah, I'm totally begging for reviews, I admit… but it's Christmas. Reviews are the bestest gifts this girl can ask for.


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